Chasing Molly Hooper
by MeAndYouSettingInAHoneymoon
Summary: The consulting detective faces a new mystery that's well beyond his reach. Or is Molly Hooper just trying to play hard to get?
1. Chapter 1

"Mike," said Sherlock as he stood in front of Mike Stamford's desk. His pale face betrayed no emotion, his dark curls still the same immaculate wreath of hair on his brilliant head, yet there was no mistaking the tension that was just…everywhere. The man turned around in his swivel chair and smiled.

"I'm afraid she's left,mate."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes paced around in his flat, his Belstaff swishing to the will of his frantic feet. His mind reeled. '_Laboratory entirely cleaned out, no trace of her belongings, not a single of those ghastly cat-themed sticky notes she preferred, equipment cleaned out almost a week ago – no, I never say 'almost', almost is for amateurs – 5 days, to be exact, yes, floor mopped a day later, someone in high-heeled shoes went in judging from the marks left – SEMI high-heeled shoes, not much pressure on the gait – certainly a woman, a slender one _– '

He stopped and sat down abruptly on his boxy, leather lounge chair and reached out his long fingers to grab the box of nicotine patches on the table beside him. He stared out into space while his left hand did the searching. Papers fell in the arduous process, but his icy blue eyes didn't even twitch. He finally felt the box and dug his hand in.

Empty.

He stood up and began pacing again, this time his face scrunched up in agitation. He stopped for the second time and took his mobile out of his coat pocket.

John Watson was away on his honeymoon with Mary in the south of France, a wedding gift from Mycroft. When the government official gave the plane tickets to the then engaged couple over dinner one night Sherlock was mumbling the words 'overcompensating' and 'obesity'. Mycroft raised an eyebrow but did not make wisecracks but one at his younger brother's jabs.

"Excuse my brother, John, Mary. Little Sherly has always been so…bitchy," he said, with a condescending smile at Sherlock.

"John as it very much pains me to do this I'll tell you now that I am at a complete loss at whatever Molly Hooper is doing. I have deduced every single detail and every little tidbit of information I have gathered has given me no other explanation but that she seems to want to, hmmmm, what's the word – ahh, "escape". As to why she desires to, shall we say "break free" of the confines of her life here in London – I have reason to believe she is abroad – I do not know why. Yet. I sense it that you are otherwise preoccupied and I suggest that you rid that absurd expression off of your face before Ms. Morstan – Mrs. Watson, rather - changes her mind and changes back into her usually atrocious baggy t-shirts and slip off the Victoria Secret – John?"

"Care to explain why even though YOU KNOW I'm in the midst of my honeymoon – MY HONEYMOON, okay, I'm emphasizing that so your brilliantly STUPID mind absorbs it well and good – you still bother to call me and nag at me when you perfectly know the reason behind all of what's happening to Molly? Okay, okay, look I apologize, I am irate – yes I am, reasonably I might add, but see here Sherlock you can always talk to me, not just now –

Sherlock! Is that you? - John get your hands off me, save it for a bit - My goodness gracious you poor sod, right about the lingerie you naughty boy, you! Well as a woman I might just give you some piece unsolicited advice as your little problem seems to be, "my area" of expertise, yes? Give Molly time to move on, there you go, the lady's senses need to be sorted out and cleansed of everything Sherlock! One more thing though, darling, quit the bothering, yes?"

The phone clicked on the other side and all that was to be heard was the drop tone.

The consulting detective smiled and retired to bed, leaving his unsolved puzzles for tomorrow's dissecting.

_'Molly Hooper, oh how you never fail to confound me.'_

* * *

_2 weeks earlier_

Molly Hooper never looked more bat-shitty than ever as she thumped her head again and again on the large volume of a medical journal atop the lab table. Her hair was the nest of every possible living, breathing flying animal and her lab coat was in disarray with coffee stains here, there and just everywhere. She was…shitty. Indeed.

_'Oooohh Molly Hooper do get a hold of yourself, there's the good lady. Stop it, stop everything, stop wasting time thinking about – oh bollocks I'm thinking of HIM, right there, again! I just can't bloody stop it can I? It's been 3 days of this nonsense Hooper! Get over it!'_

Poor Molly was a mess, her head filled with nothing but bits of dried fluff and Sherlock. She was a PATHOLOGIST, a reputable practitioner of medicine (and morgue magic, as her friend once coined it) and she knew damn well she was not living it and breathing it. Yes, he'd been nicer and warmer the past few weeks since he came back from hiding and untangling Moriarty's web; yes, HE offered HER coffee for once, _"Two sugars and milk, I take it?" _and YES, he smiled THRICE – THRICE! At HER! But THAT didn't mean anything, right?

A girl can dream though. But a 32 year old woman sure ought to be putting all those fantasies into concrete realization! Today's technological innovation paved the way to Molly's late-night researches, and Google was the receiving end of it all.

And from everything that she had read, there might be that little, almost-zero but still existent chance that Sherlock took a liking to her.

A girl can dream.

She lifted her now bushy, brown head and exhaled. _'I have to tell him.'_

Right there and then the man himself pushed back the swinging door panels and strode across the lab; erect, graceful and fiery. Molly's breath hitched.

Sherlock didn't even look at her but went straight ahead for the microscope and peered in. He was like that for 4 minutes, and looking satisfied, he started to head out when Molly gathered enough courage to put one shaking hand on the sleeve of his coat to stop him. He did.

"What is it, Molly? I am in the middle of a rather invigorating experiment and time is really of the essence at the present moment. Therefore, whatever you have to say, be it of great importance or not… it will just have to wait." His back was still on her, his eyes were still on the door but he was, on the whole, getting more and more impatient with each tick and tock.

"Nu-no-no I have to say this. I have to say it. Sorry, I'm so sorry, my hands are shaking –

"Out with it Molly, I'm running out of time –

"I love you."

Sherlock finally turned around and Molly, was frightened of him. His eyes were narrowed, and when he began to speak she trembled with each word.

"You think I know not of your desires, Molly?"

Molly squeaked.

"Do you take me as a fool, or are you just insulting me? Of course I know THAT. If I didn't then I wouldn't have come to you for help, knowing you'd always be willing to offer whatever your befuddled brains could conjure up. I know that you want ME, Molly. What do you want, then, there's always a purpose in confessions and this is such – what, you want me to tell you that I love you back?"

Molly bit her lip, her eyes fixated on the floor. The tears were coming, she knew it. She FELT it.

"Molly I can never love you. Please try to accept that and bin your fantasies because they are sure to just poison your mind, and obviously your competency. Once you accept that then all the better. Dispose of whatever rubbish those sickeningly sentimental low-lives on the internet are telling you. YOU know what I am, and still you hope. You count, yes, but never more than a colleague. I am telling you - you are wasting your precious time. And so am I. Now if you excuse me I really must be finishing my experiment. Good day, Molly Hooper."

* * *

_2 days later_

Molly brushed her long, silky brown hair which reached just below her chest. She parted it to the side, then began curling her locks. She applied minimal make-up, just a bit of foundation, blush and lip-gloss. She then slipped on her dark green dress with caution. She zipped it at the side stood back to appreciate her work. She looked nice. Nice enough to attend a wedding. There was just one thing though.

Her eyes were dead and haunted.

But she was going ahead with her plan, anyway. She was going to attend John and Mary's wedding - fuck it if Sherlock's there - and enjoy the celebration. She was also hell-bent on staying away from Sherlock.

Oh, Sherlock.

She knew what he was going to say before he said it, but she was an idiot to even think to try, and hope.

Sherlock was not a man, and he would never ever be good for anyone. He's too far above and unreachable. He was always that way. It was always that way. And Molly was playing dumb-duck when she should be playing doctor. The idiosyncrasy of it all was continuing to plague Molly, but she was determined to never let it crack the pretty little façade she made for herself.

And Molly, for all of her worth, was also very much determined to move on.

* * *

She sat alone at one of the many magnificent tables the John Watson and Mary Morstan wedding reception hosted. Dinner was done, and it was time for dancing. She grimaced at the embarrassment of having no one ask her out. It was always very difficult. She wouldn't be alone for too long, though.

"Can I ask you to dance, miss? You seem very lonely and well I, maybe we could go there and you know, umm, I don't know really but maybe –

"Why yes, of course," said Molly, with a small smile. Only dunderheads would be interested in her, of course. But she was all too eager to slip past solitude.

The man grinned. He was baby-faced, with a little stubble on his chin. He had green eyes. He had short-cropped blonde hair. He had the sloppy look of a man into his mid-thirties. But he had his charm.

He'd do.

The man took Molly's hand, to her surprise, and led her to the dance floor. America was playing in the background and lights were all around. It was kind of magical, really. And the man never stopped smiling.

"I'm Timothy Garrott, Tim you know, for short. I'm John's second cousin. How 'bout you, miss?"

"Oh hello! I knew you looked like someone! Well I'm Molly Hooper, I work at Barts. I'm a pathologist there. Thank you for asking me out to dance, it was getting quite chilly and I'm pleased to get up and get moving because – oh dear I'm sorry I'm babbling, aren't I? An embarrassing habit of old, I'm afraid. It's just one of them really and I – I'll shut it. I'll really shut it. Okay I'm sorry I'm doing it again –

The man practically guffawed and some of the guests looked incredulously at the pair. Molly blushed, but Tim still laughed. At her or with her, she didn't know.

"I am sorry, really sorry but you're quite the girl, you know? You're funny, I like that. Funny's good, and babbling's too. I'm okay with it," he said. He then put his right hand on her waist, took her right hand in his, and maneuvered them both to and fro.

"You're good at this, very good actually, goodness. Never would have taken you for a graceful pair of limbs Mr. Garrott," she said as she winked at him.

She winked at him. A stranger. She was flirting. With a stranger.

How odd.

"Oh well, you know what they say about first impressions, Miss Hooper –

"Doctor. It's Doctor Hooper. If you paid mind to any of the words she was saying then you would know perfectly well that she's Doctor Hooper. I see that the bar is now less filled with desperate people desperately wanting to get off of the whole event. How disgusting of the human nature to rely on such activity, binge - drinking - to escape the harsh truth of their very, very desperate lives when all they would get in the end is regret and a bad liver. I can see that you're desperate too, Molly, so now, tell me: just how desperate are you that you danced with this man knowing what he is: a champion example of a moron."

Sherlock was heartbreakingly beautiful in his best man's suit. Yet what was equally heartbreaking was his face, smug of his right-on deduction and damn proud of it. And Molly couldn't take it anymore.

She couldn't take Sherlock anymore.

"I'm sorry Tim, it's been lovely but I have to go now."

She half-ran across the reception and darted for the exit.

Sherlock just stood there, unsure of what was going on with Molly Hooper.

* * *

Molly Hooper couldn't move or speak or even breathe properly. She was tired of it all. And the cool comfort she usually felt when working quietly and peacefully, tending to dead bodies was nowhere to be found. 65 year old Jeanette Smee held no interest for her at the moment, even though the report on cardiac arrest seemed to be making itself known to be so untrue, she just couldn't take it.

She went to the lab to find solace in her Ipod. Yes, listening to sappy 80's songs to lift the weight off of her chest was wonderful, but that was just the idea. The real thing wasn't doing anything to ease the pain. How pathetic.

When she went inside, well, just her luck then.

He was there.

"Jeanette Smee was poisoned, I'd say by her caretaker. The old woman was strict and harsh on her helper, and the helper of course has an anger management issue, it resulting from childhood trauma a probability. I might even say a certainty. All very exciting, wouldn't you say?"

"Stop it, yes, alright, Sherlock? I'm tired, I'm tired of saying I'm tired, and I can't stand you right now. I know how you enjoy torturing me but can I plead to your humanity and be left in peace? I'm sorry, really sorry, but please, just leave."

Molly was near to falling faint on the ground, but she would never want to let Sherlock see how affected she is, even if she knew he already did.

"Your eyebags are an obvious indication of recent late-nights, as well as your voice. You have not been tending to yourself or paying too much attention to personal grooming. You also lost weight, 2 pounds, and judging by your mismatched socks you are very, very disoriented to notice them. Even the way you put them on this morning is a clear sign. If it is about what I said at the wedding, I'll tell you Molly that I have but the best intentions, may they be obscure –

"The best intentions, you say? My goodness Sherlock is that how you phrase 'I'm Sherlock Holmes and I'm a dick who takes pleasure in offending people and ruining everybody's lives' now? That's rich, Sherlock. That's very original," snapped Molly.

Sherlock was sitting on one of the lab stools when he drew himself to full height and towered over Molly.

"Foul language does not do you well, Molly. I see that you're too angry to be rational. I'm leaving now –

Sherlock never got to finishing what he said because Molly kissed him.

She simply crashed her lips unto his. Nothing more. It stayed there for so long that when Molly finally let go she was quite confused. Sherlock's face was poker.

"Please don't do that again Molly Hooper."

With the swinging of the doors she sank down and cried.

* * *

"Miss Irene, someone's on the phone, looking for you."

"Oh, really?" The woman grinned, flashing her white teeth so very much in contrast with her dark, red lips. Her eyes widened at the prospects of a new customer.

A new someone to break.

"How deliciously exciting, then. The first one in months. Is it a girl, then? I would love it if it was."

"Yes ma'am."

"Good! They're always the best ones. Give me the phone, then dear, and ready my whip "


	2. Author's Note

Author's Note:

Sorry guys if it would take time to update chapters for this one! Just so you know, I haven't watched Sherlock season 3 yet (I can already hear the gasp's and the snickers) (I know, I'm pathetic) so I'm quite out of fresh material. Don't worry, I promise to finish the story, and, well, I hope you won't get tired of waiting for updates. Just follow the story so you can be alerted when I post a new chapter!

Thanks a lot guys!

Lots of lurrrrvvvee,

Gwen


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